The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
by LittlePippin76
Summary: I tried to think of a better title, but couldn't. After all, if it was good enough for ACD, it's good enough for me. A man looking for two namesakes with whom to share a fortune comes knocking on Sherlock's door... T in case of swears. Pip.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

John slowly staggered down the steps to the lounge. The box that he was carrying was slightly too heavy and too high for him to see over it properly. He dumped it on the floor by the door.

"Ow," he said, rubbing his lower back.

"Bend from your knees, John," Sherlock said from the sofa. He was lying sprawled in pyjamas and dressing gown, and thumbing through John's copy of Grey's Anatomy. He was surrounded by papers.

"Yeah, thanks. I thought you were going to help."

"Why on Earth would you have thought that?"

John leaned against the door-frame. "Because I said, 'I'm moving my stuff to the flat on Tuesday, will you help?' and you said 'Yes.'"

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"I'm fairly sure I didn't. As I recollect I explained to you how ridiculous that you're paying for the flat from today, and you're moving your stuff into the flat from today, but you, yourself are staying here until Saturday. Why don't you just move everything then?"

John stared at him. "Sherlock, I'm _getting married_ on Saturday."

"I know! That should only take an hour or so, there's loads of time afterwards."

"Sherlock!" John paused and narrowed his eyes. "You're saying this just to wind me up, aren't you."

Sherlock grinned. "It's going very well, I think. Anyway, I started helping. Look." He gestured to a box beside the sofa which contained three of John's books. "Then I got bored. Moving's boring, John, it should be done as rarely as possible. You do it far too often."

"Well, I'm getting married, and it's traditional for husbands to live in the same house as their wives."

"It's really not you know."

"Oh, for God's... Sherlock, I really don't want you to start quoting divorce statistics at me again."

"Fine, fine. It's your life to destroy..."

John stared at him. "You know, Sherlock, there's a saying. It goes 'A friend helps you move.'"

"You just made that up."

"No I didn't. 'A friend helps you move. A _good_ friend helps you move a body.'"

Sherlock looked at him. "Oh well, I'd help you move a _body._"

John grinned. "OK, well I'm taking a break. Do you want tea?"

"Please."

"How's the search for a new flatmate going?" John called through from the kitchen.

Sherlock scowled. "I don't want a new flatmate."

"No, but you need a new flatmate." John responded. "You can't live alone, Sherlock, you'll set fire to the place."

"I'll be fine." He dropped Grey's Anantomy into the box and started making paper darts from the papers he was surrounded by.

John made the tea and carried them through to Sherlock.

"You won't be fine, you'll be destructive; that's why you had to leave your last flat, you need someone here. There's only so much Mrs Hudson will take."

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Fine, take this down."

"I'm not your secretary."

"Are you going to help or not?"

"Fine." John sat down at the table and routed out a pen and piece of paper. "Go on."

"Double room available in central London. House-keeper stroke landlady in residence."

"You can't put that, Mrs Hudson would skin you!"

"To live with tidy, clean, male, non-smoker..."

"Sherlock! You can't lie like that."

"Only ex army-doctors recently invalided home from Afghanistan need apply."

"Sherlock..."

"I don't want another flatmate, John."

John sighed. "Sherlock, I can't live here. I'm getting married."

"You could both live here. There's loads of room."

John smiled. "No, Sherlock. It doesn't work like that."

"It could."

"It really couldn't."

John looked down at the table. He noticed one of the adverts in the Metro had been circled.

"Have you found someone... what is this?"

"Hm?"

"This ad you've circled in the newspaper."

"Oh that, it's for a case."

"'Wanted, persons with the surname of Garrideb apply to box number...' Sherlock; your name's not Garrideb."

Sherlock groaned dramatically. "Oh John, who will point out the startlingly obvious to me when you've gone?"

He threw one of the paper darts towards John. It hit him on the forehead.

"Ow! Sherlock will you grow up!"

"Read it."

"Read what."

Sherlock gestured in his general direction. "Letter."

John unfolded the paper dart and looked at the letter.

"Dear Mr. Holmes,

I would like to consult with you regarding an interesting correspondence I have recently received. I have been contacted by a Mr Edward Garrideb, who claims he has instructions to find two other adult male persons with our surname. I am lead to understand that the matter will be financially beneficial to all three of us, in the case that we come together.

I am presently unable to leave my abode, due to extreme agoraphobia. However, I would be extremely grateful if you would consent to visit me at my room in Swiss Cottage at the above address, on Tuesday, January fourteenth at 6PM. If this is agreeable to you, please call to confirm by telephone.

Regards,

Mr Simon Garrideb."

John stared at the letter for a moment. "Well, that's weird," he said.

"Well, obviously. I wouldn't have taken the case if it wasn't weird." Sherlock told him.

"So you've taken it? You've called him to confirm?"

"I have. Will you come with me?"

John hesitated a moment. "Well, I'm supposed to be moving my stuff today. Mary wants to get the flat pretty well straight for when we're back from our honeymoon."

"She's got you well trained already, hasn't she?"

"No! She hasn't! I just... I would prefer to make her happy."

"Because then she gives you treats. Seriously, you're like one of Pavlov's bloody dogs."

"No I'm not! I was going to say that I can probably make time for a short appointment in Swiss Cottage."

"Really? Well, if you're sure you have time... What's weird about the letter?"

"What?"

"You said it was weird; elaborate."

"Oh." John looked down at the letter. "Well, for one thing it is a bit of an odd name. I couldn't say where it originated at all. Have you Googled it?"

"Yes. I've also looked on Facebook, MySpace, and Twitter, the latter three have nothing at all, and Google only brings a second rate publication from the author of that letter, Simon Garrideb."

"Huh."

Sherlock looked across at him. "'Huh' indeed. What else is strange about it?"

"Erm..." John inspected the letter. The paper seemed fairly standard writing paper and wasn't of particularly good quality, and it seemed to have been written by a basic biro. He looked at the handwriting which was neat and easy to read, but he knew nothing about analysing handwriting, and he had suspicions that graphology was all a bit bogus anyway.

"No," he said to Sherlock, "no, I've got nothing."

"Nothing?" Sherlock sat up and gave John a disappointed look.

"Nothing. I'm useless as a partner, and you clearly need to find someone better."

Sherlock stormed across and snatched the letter from his hands. "Point one: It's been handwritten. The person who wrote this was precise and careful; there are no errors or corrections, your average person can't write two paragraphs without making a single error. Point two: the choice of language is peculiar, 'I am lead to understand' 'if you would consent to visit', people don't talk like that. This is someone who reads more than he converses. Point three, and perhaps this is the most crucial point of fascination; it's a letter. Who writes letters in this day and age if they're not the gas board? If he wanted to contact me he could have called on the number on the website, or put a comment there, or sent an email, or even just a text, but he didn't. He wrote a letter."

"Maybe he doesn't have a computer?"

Sherlock frowned. "How could he not have a computer?"

John smiled. "It is possible you know. Not everyone has one."

"Why would you not have a computer? Computers are... How could you possibly survive without a computer? How would you function?"

John snorted. "I don't know, but people did for years and years, Sherlock. The relied on such things as the post office to communicate. He's got a telephone though."

"But he gave a land line and not a mobile number. Surely it isn't possible to not have a mobile phone."

"He's agoraphobic. Why would he need a mobile if he's always at home?"

"Good point, but here's another question; how does he even know I exist if he doesn't have a computer?"

John frowned and thought about this.

"Word of mouth? Perhaps a friend told him about you."

"And the friend wouldn't suggest going to the police or try to offer advice himself? It's all on the website, John, I don't advertise anywhere, everyone comes to me via my site or your blog or the police."

"Oh." John suddenly said, looking slightly embarrassed.

Sherlock gave him a piercing look. "'Oh' what?"

"Well, you know my blog...?"

"Yes John."

"Well, you know those magazines that you get in doctor's surgeries that print short stories and stuff."

"Yes John. Why? What did you do?"

"No it wasn't me! Well it wasn't just me. Mary was reading some of the old blog entries and she said that they'd make excellent short stories, and she said I should send one of them off and see what happens."

"You've had one of your blog entries published as a short story? In print? In a magazine that people pay for?"

"Yes. A bit."

"I've read your blog, John, and it's appalling."

"Well, Mary helped with some of the grammar, and she made it a bit more... readable, but yes, it was published. I mean, I changed the names of people and the locations, but... yes."

"And you left in my full name and my address."

John coloured. "Yes. Yes, I did do that." He looked at Sherlock. "I'm really sorry, Sherlock; I didn't think!"

"No, no it's fine." Sherlock said softly. John wasn't sure but he though he saw a hint of pride on his face. "Which case was it anyway?"

"Oh, 'Study in Pink'."

"That was a good case, it was a good choice. And you did take out the part where you reflected on how ignorant I was, didn't you?"

John said nothing, but the horrified expression and his deep scarlet hue told Sherlock all he needed to know. They both ignored the sudden energetic banging of the door-knocker.

"John! If it isn't bad enough that half the Met read that but now it's..."

He stopped suddenly to concentrate on the noise that was suddenly coming from downstairs. John listened too. It didn't take them very long to realise that someone was in the hallway downstairs, and they were shouting at Mrs Hudson.

John was up first and out the door in an instant, with Sherlock hot on his heels.

**AN - There are Garridebs on Facebook. Sorry. Pip.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Despite his speed, John descended the stairs in a calm and controlled fashion. At the bottom, Mrs Hudson was flattened against one of the walls with her hand over her chest, while a tall, fair haired and muscular man was stood over her, shouting general abuse in a strong South African accent.

Sherlock watched John with pride as he deftly put himself between Mrs Hudson and the visitor, stood calmly upright and gave him clear eye contact and a smile.

"Hello, my name is John Watson; can I help with anything here?"

"John Watson? I was looking for a busybody called Sherlock Holmes." The stranger told him.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, from the staircase.

The man peered at him with a slight sneer, taking in the pyjamas and bare feet. "Well, _Sherlock Holmes_, my name is Edward Garrideb and I understand a friend of mine got in touch with you about me."

"Ah, yes," Sherlock responded, "Mr Simon Garrideb has purchased my services to help you find a third namesake."

This appeared to surprise Edward and he relaxed slightly. "He hired you to help us?"

"That's right."

"Oh, well, that changes things slightly."

"Good," put in John, "now if you could just apologise for disturbing Mrs Hudson, the three of us can go upstairs and discuss the matter further."

Once again Edward's face seemed to hold a slight sneer, but John stayed completely still, neither threatening, nor giving any ground. Edward's face cleared.

"I apologise for my manner, Ma'am. It was wrong of me to shout at you," he finally said. "I can only suggest that it's the freakish and urgent nature of my business that makes me so out of sorts. I apologise completely."

Mrs Hudson nodded, her hand still at her throat. "That's quite all right."

John turned towards her. "Are you OK?" he asked gently.

She nodded and smiled at him before heading back to her flat.

"Mr. Garrideb," Sherlock said, "perhaps you'd like to come upstairs and let me know more about this freakish business of yours."

Edward nodded, and followed Sherlock up the stairs, with John following behind.

Sherlock sat down in his armchair with a flourish, and waved Edward into the second armchair. Edward looked disdainfully around the room before he sat down. John was left to perch on the coffee table.

Edward looked at Sherlock. "So Simon hired you to help us root out another Garrideb, did he? What are you? A private detective?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes, sometimes I like to lend a hand in these trifling matters for people."

"Are you well paid for that?"

"I get by."

"Good, good. Well, I'm very happy to have an extra hand in this, not that I think it will do much good. Did Simon explain our predicament to you?"

"No, not yet. I was hoping to visit him later to get the details."

"Well, I can save you the trouble." Edward smiled at him. "Our story is an interesting one. I was born and raised in Cape Town. I've lived there all my life. A couple of months ago I was contacted by the executers of the estate of a Nathan Garrideb. This man, Nathan was extremely rich; he owned an amount of land outside Malmesbury, just North of Cape Town, and on that land, he owned and ran a diamond mine which was very successful. He had never married and apparently he had become preoccupied that he had no-one to give his mine to after he died. He had no family, no trusted advisor or close friend. This man, Nathan, was extremely proud of his unusual surname, and he decided to pass his mine on to someone with his same surname. Then, to ensure that there was a stronger likelihood that there would be a next generation of Garridebs to take over, he decided that he would split the company three ways, and a third each would be given to three male Garridebs. The only catch was that there had to be three Garridebs to inherit, or there would be none. When I heard about this, I set about the task of finding two other Garridebs anywhere in the world, and on hearing of one here in London, I travelled here to meet him and to encourage him to join me in looking for the other Garrideb."

"And he, in turn, came to me." Sherlock smiled, as if enjoying some private joke.

"Yes, I guess he did. I have to admit I'm slightly disappointed in him. I was hoping that the financial incentive might shake him out of this agoraphobia that he complains about."

"Agoraphobia doesn't work that way," John pointed out.

"Well, it's no skin off my nose. I just thought it would be a nice by-product of my little quest. I've already told him that I'd buy him out of any share of the mine that might be coming to him. It would be worth about seven million pounds, but he doesn't seem that interested. It's a shame."

"How did you hear about this diamond mine?" John asked him.

"The executors contacted me when they found me in the Cape Town phone book."

"And they didn't find anyone else?"

"No. I suppose their job was done having set me on the task. Obviously I'm not going to turn down seven million quid."

"Mmm," Sherlock responded. "Tell me, Mr Garrideb, how long have you been in the UK?"

"Oh, just a couple of weeks. I arrived just before Christmas."

"And where are you staying? In a hotel or do you have friends here?"

"Oh no, I've no friends in England. I'm staying in Victoria in the Holiday Inn."

"Marvellous." Sherlock stated. "Marvellous. Well, this has been extremely interesting, Mr Garrideb. I really hope I'll have some good news for you and Mr Simon Garrideb quite soon."

"Oh, to be honest I wouldn't bother wasting your time. I've searched long and hard and haven't heard of another Garrideb anywhere in the world. I suspect it's a fool's errand. Not worth your bother."

"Thank you, Mr Garrideb. Perhaps I'll let Simon Garrideb know as much."

"Good." Edward stood up to take his leave. "Well, I'm glad I've saved you the bother."

Sherlock stood too and shook his hand. "Well, thank you for taking the trouble to come and see me. It's certainly been most gratifying."

"Good, well goodbye to you both," he shook John's hand too. "Once again, sorry about the old lady."

John nodded curtly and followed him downstairs.

Edward turned at the door to speak to him. "Bit unprofessional, your friend there, isn't he."

"I've heard that said about him, certainly," John responded.

"Well, like I say, there's no point him wasting his time on this."

John smiled and closed the front door firmly behind him.

When he got back upstairs, Sherlock was sat on his chair, with his knees drawn up to his chest. He was resting his chin on his knees. He looked up with a smile as John came back in.

"What an absolutely fascinating man!" he said. "What was an interesting case in its own right has suddenly become absolutely fascinating, don't you think?"

"Er, yes? Maybe? You're taking the case then? You're not walking away like he suggested?"

"Walking away? No, I tend to find when someone as delightful as Mr. Edward Garrideb warns me off a case, it makes the whole thing even more appealing."

"Good, good. What time did you say you're going to see the other one?"

"Six."

John looked at his watch. "So you've got about five hours to help me pack then?"

"Can't pack. Thinking."

"You can't think at the same time as packing? Just how much of a genius are you supposed to be?"

Sherlock glanced across at him. "A brilliant mind requires focus."

"Yeah, well a brilliant friend requires help packing. Come on, move your lazy arse. While you're packing, you can tell me why you found Edward Garrideb so entertaining."

Sherlock got up and shuffled to the bookshelf. He started looking through the books and throwing various volumes into a box. "Didn't you find him fascinating?"

"No, I found him annoying."

"Why?"

"Because he was generally unpleasant. People shouldn't shout at Mrs Hudson."

"No, they shouldn't."

"I was including you in that, Sherlock."

Sherlock snorted. "Is this vascular surgery book yours or mine?"

"Mine. So why was Edward Garrideb so fascinating?"

"Oh, it was the lies. Are you sure this is mine?"

"What lies? And it's not yours, it's mine. Don't think you can catch me out like that."

"All the lies. Pretty much everything he said was a lie. Didn't you notice?"

"No. And put that book in the box, and not back on the shelf. Sherlock, you don't need or want a book on vascular surgery, you just want to irritate me. Can't you do that by telling me how I'm really stupid, rather than stealing my possessions?"

With a dramatic sigh, Sherlock dropped the book in the box and walked across the room in order to throw himself down on the sofa.

"John, you are stupid in the following ways. One, he claimed to have been born and raised in Capetown, but his accent was clearly Johannesburg, and you didn't spot it. Two, he claimed to have been in this country just a few weeks, yet he used British vernacular for money, and you didn't spot that, nor did you spot the faded and torn wallet for his Oyster Card in his pocket, which would date it at least six months, so he's been here a while. Three, he said he was at a Holiday Inn at Victoria, and there isn't one there, it's in King's Cross, and you didn't spot that. Four, there was a particular type of mud on his shoes..."

John laughed. "I wondered when we were going to get to the mud on his shoes. What did that tell you?"

"It told me he had dirty shoes, and that you are an idiot."

"How so?"

"If you can't make the connection, I'm not going to tell you. What number are we on?"

"Five, I think. Please, do go on with the stupidity list."

"Five, you're paying for a flat from today, but have no intention of moving in until Saturday. Six, you're moving all your stuff today, and you have no intention of moving in until Saturday. Seven, you've known me for, what, nearly three years, and yet you _still_ thought I was the sort of person who would help you move. Stupid, John. Stupid."

* * *

**Thank you so much for the reviews! It really does focus me. I am blown away by the generosity of people taking the time to do that.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The two of them worked in a companionable silence for the next few hours, John packing up various bits and pieces from the living room and kitchen, and Sherlock staring, deep in thought, at the ceiling.

Every now and again, Sherlock would glance at John with displeasure. John didn't notice though.

"Right," John said, sitting down and digging his trainers out, "I'm off to pick up the Mike's car. We'll drop this stuff off at the flat, then head back to Swiss Cottage and the other Mr. Garrideb afterwards. Does that sound like a plan to you?"

"It sounds like a plan." Sherlock replied. "I'm not sure it sounds like a _good_ plan though."

"Come on, Sherlock! We just need to put the stuff inside the door so that me and Mary can start unpacking tomorrow. We'll be ten minutes at the flat then we can get on with the case." He looked across at Sherlock, who hadn't moved. "_Please,_ Sherlock."

"Fine!" Sherlock snapped, still not moving.

John sighed and set off down the stairs.

On his return he was pleasantly surprised to find that Sherlock had indeed stirred himself and was fully dressed and ready to go. He was even more surprised, and more pleased, that Sherlock didn't need any persuasion to start picking up boxes and helping John load them into the back of Mike's estate car. Obviously, he couldn't resist grumbling.

"Why didn't you just hire someone to do this?"

"Because I have two suitcases and four boxes. It doesn't need a professional to move them slightly across town and into another flat."

"City."

"What?"

"London is a city, and not a town."

"Oh just get in!"

Sherlock settled himself into the passenger seat as John hopped into beside him. Twenty minutes later he pulled over in front of a smart, modern looking, low-rise block of flats.

"See," John said, turning to Sherlock, "It took twenty minutes in the car to get from your flat to mine. I reckon a cabbie could do it in less time that."

"It would be longer at rush hour. I bet we'd be stuck at least twenty minutes on Euston Road alone."

"Then don't visit during rush hour."

"Who says I'll be visiting at all?"

"Or you could walk, just through Regent's Park and up a bit. It's Kentish Town, Sherlock, it's not like I've moved to Edinburgh."

"You haven't technically moved anywhere until Saturday. And there's no direct underground. I'll have to change at King's Cross and wait for ages for the right side of the Northern Line."

"You don't use the tube, Sherlock! And like I say, technically it's walking distance!" John sighed. "Right, let's get this done and get to Swiss Cottage."

Sherlock followed him into the lobby carrying a box while John pulled a suitcase behind him. They went up two floors in the lift, and John opened the door to his new flat with a flourish.

"Well, what do you think?"

"It's nice enough I suppose," Sherlock said with a sniff. "A bit bland wouldn't you say?" He put his box down in the middle of the lounge and went to stare out of the large, picture windows. In the reflection of the glass he watched John in the kitchen. There was a doubled over piece of paper stuck to the fridge with a magnet. John pulled it off and read the note with a smile, then folded it and put it in his pocket.

When he turned back to Sherlock, he was glowing.

"Right, let's get the rest of the stuff and head off."

Sherlock just nodded, glumly.

They were, as predicted, less than ten minutes at the flat before they got back into the car and headed off to Simon Garrideb's address in Swiss Cottage. They stopped at some traffic lights and John glanced across at Sherlock who was resting his chin on his chest and was staring intently at the dashboard.

"You OK?" he asked him.

"Fine," Sherlock responded.

John patted him gently on the leg. "Sherlock, I'm really not going to be very far away."

"John, I really don't care where you live." Sherlock snapped.

He had, however, recovered somewhat when they got to the Simon Garrideb's house. He leapt out of the car and paced the pavement while John sorted out a parking ticket. As soon as that was done he marched quickly up to the doorstep and rang the doorbell.

The house was an old Victorian terrace, divided into several flats, much in the style of the Baker Street house. They were ushered in by a mousy little woman of about forty.

"Oh, you must be Simon's visitors. He told me to expect you; he's just in here." She tapped on a door and walked straight in.

"Simon, your guests are here," she said smiling at him.

Simon Garrideb was a man of about fifty-five. He too was fairly small and thin, and he had a pair of round glasses perched on a fairly large nose. When they went in, he was sitting down at a writing desk, working at something with an old fashioned fountain pen. He stood up to greet them with a smile, and he shook their hands.

"Do come in and sit down. I'm so happy that you were able to make this appointment. Can I get you something? Tea or coffee? Perhaps some cocoa, or some biscuits."

They both smiled and assured him they were fine. He thanked the woman, Melissa, and she left them alone.

Simon waved them both into chairs and they sat down. Within seconds of John sitting down, he was leapt on by a large, white, Persian cat, one of four cats he could see in the room. He sneezed instantly and gently lifted the cat to the ground. It leapt on him again.

"Oh, Henry, you must leave our guest alone!" Simon said to the cat indulgently. "He must like you, Doctor Watson. He always knows a cat lover, does my Henry."

"Really?" wheezed John. "Marvellous." He sneezed again.

Sherlock glared at him, but also handed across a handkerchief which John took, gratefully.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, I wonder if you've been able to look into my little problem at all?"

"I have, and I'm afraid to tell you I haven't been able to find another Garrideb anywhere at all. It's a mystery to me how there are three of you at all? Your families must have a high volume of females."

"It's true, my Mother was one of five girls, and the others all took their husband's names, or died without marrying."

"But you didn't take your father's name?"

Simon faltered slightly. "Alas, to my shame, I don't know what my father's name was. My Mother never told me." He sighed. "I pray for her soul daily, and I hope that my work here diminishes her sin in God's eyes."

Both men stared.

"What work?" John asked, still doing battle with Henry, with his eyes and nose streaming.

"I lead a prayer group here in my house. I'm working with my church to encourage people to go into the streets to preach God's word."

He handed across a pamphlet to John. It was beautifully written with an elegant calligraphic border and beautiful letter work. John sneezed loudly, then read the pamphlet silently for a while.

Sherlock turned back to Simon. "Tell me, Mr. Garrideb, how long have you lived in this house?"

"Five years. I moved in after Melissa had some problems with her previous tenants. She said she'd prefer someone she trusted and she had been such a help to me with my difficulties and it seemed sensible that we were both in the same residence. She helps with my group, you see."

"Melissa owns the house?" Sherlock clarified.

"No, the church owns the house, but she is the lead tenant. The church lets out these rooms or flats to people who are in need, or who have lost their way and Melissa acts as their guide. I now help her with this. Unfortunately, some of the past tenants haven't been able to find the right path again."

"How very civic minded of the church." John said dryly.

Sherlock glanced across him and noted he looked thunderous. He was now struggling with two cats, and was still occasionally sneezing.

Sherlock ignored him and turned back to Simon.

"Tell me, Mr Garrideb, do you have anything of great value in the house?"

Simon seemed taken aback. "No, no not at all. That was one of the reasons I was quite enticed regarding the money in Mr Nathan Garrideb's will. Mr Edward Garrideb assured me that he would buy out my share in the South African mine. He mentioned the figure of seven million pounds, and that would go a long way towards spreading our message throughout the world."

"Mr Garrideb," Sherlock suddenly asked, "can I ask you; why don't you have a computer? Surely the church could lend you one to help with your message?"

"Oh I don't like them. Nasty, modern, immoral things. By all accounts, Mr Holmes, computers are much more adept at spreading immorality than they are at spreading the Word of God. Besides which, our church is not a particularly rich one. The pastor certainly seemed to feel that it would be worth pursuing this matter."

"I'm sure he did," John said, through a barrage of coughing into Sherlock's handkerchief. "Sherlock, I'm going to have to wait for you outside."

Sherlock frowned again, but before John could get fully upright the door flew open and Edward Garrideb pushed into the room.

* * *

**AN, I'm full of cold so this, and the next chapter which should be up tonight, are slightly more tense than I'd usually write. Sorry about that.**

**For a light hearted antidote for this, please check out Katkin's story 'The Snowman'. Especially those of you who are just biding your time before the next Scarlet story.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Simon! Simon! I've found him! I've found the third Garrideb!" Edward rushed into the room and pushed a printout of an Internet advert into Simon's hands.

Simon sat down again reading it, looking slightly shocked, but extremely pleased.

"'Garrideb's printing and stationery works'" he read from the advertisement. "You found him? You found him? And now we're rich?"

"Yes we are, Simon! As long as we can convince him to come down to London to meet with Nathan Garrideb's solicitors. Well, with their agent here anyhow."

"Have you spoken to this man at all?" Simon said, excited.

"I have, and he confirms his name is James Garrideb. The only trouble is that he didn't quite believe me. It is, after all, a bit of a strange tale. He's not against meeting in person though, but I can't get away from some appointments in London for the next few days. I have some paperwork from the solicitors, though, that I was hoping you could show him to help you convince him to come back to London with you. He'll meet you tomorrow at five."

"Me?" Simon's face fell. "I don't think you understand, Mr. Garrideb. I can't possibly go to Birmingham. I can barely leave the house."

"Really? You'll insist on staying at home and give up the chance of seven million pounds?"

Simon looked across at Sherlock. "Perhaps, Mr Holmes, you could go on our behalf?"

"Oh no," Sherlock said, smiling. "I couldn't possibly leave London at this time."

"But I'm paying you for your trouble." Simon pointed out.

"Mr Garrideb, I won't be taking any money from you. After all, my services have been less productive than Edward's own work."

"But I could pay you for this trip!" Simon pressed.

"No, really, I can't go. My friend John here has chosen to marry and move house in the same week. I couldn't possibly leave him to manage all of that by himself." He looked over to where John was standing by the door and smiled at him.

John, through a head-full of tears and snot and a wheezing chest, was strangely moved. He knew Sherlock didn't want for money, but he never thought he'd turn down a case for his sake.

"Well, I don't know what's to be done then." Simon said, looking defeated.

"I cannot believe that you aren't prepared to do this, Simon!" Edward said to him. "I've travelled from South Africa for this, and you can't even be bothered to go a couple of miles down the road!"

Simon looked mildly ashamed. "I don't think you understand, Edward. I can't even get to church without Melissa with me, and that's less than one mile away."

"So you'll give this money up? Not even just for you, but for me and this James chap too! And what about your church; couldn't they do with the money? Are you really prepared to turn down seven million pounds that could be used for God's work? You aren't even prepared to try for His sake?"

This seemed to be the incentive Simon needed. "All right," he said quietly, "I will try. But I'm shaking at just the idea of it."

"Well I'll help you as much as I can." Edward assured him. "I'll check train tickets and buy them in advance for you. And they'll be first class too. What about this Melissa bird; would she go with you to help?"

Simon nodded slightly. "She might."

"Well, let's ask her." Edward rushed to the door again. "Melissa? Melissa! Simon needs your help!"

John took the opportunity to duck out of the house.

He was standing on the pavement when Sherlock joined him ten minutes later.

"Well, this is all going splendidly, don't you think?" Sherlock chuckled for a while.

"Well I'm so glad you think so. I want no part of it." John snapped, still struggling to breathe.

"John, are you allergic to cats?"

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock, yes I'm allergic to bloody cats. Hell, even hairless ones make my nose run. I'm in no fit state to drive. Here." He handed the car keys over to Sherlock.

Sherlock peered at them, and then peered at the car.

"Sherlock, you can drive, can't you?" John asked him.

"Oh yes. Certainly it would be true to say that I have driven. I needed to once."

John took the keys back. "Hell." He sighed. "OK, well I'm going for a walk in that park there for twenty minutes to see if it clears. You can come or not; your choice."

He stormed off, and Sherlock followed him. They walked about for a bit while John wheezed and sneezed, angrily.

"John, have I done something to offend you?" Sherlock finally asked. "I do think your new flat is perfectly nice, and I do hope that you'll be happy with Mary. I'm capable of wishing you well and sulking about you leaving at the same time, you know."

John stopped walking and looked at him. "No, Sherlock, no, it wasn't you at all. It was that man in there!"

"Edward Garrideb?"

"No, not him; Simon!"

"Simon?" Sherlock frowned. "What on Earth has he done to offend you? Other than to nearly kill you with cats, which was purely accidental on his part."

"Cats? No, it was about this." He pulled a paper from his pocket and thrust it at Sherlock.

"'Looking forward to unpacking tomorrow and christening the flat a bit. I've packed the stripy set that you like so much.'" He looked at John. "Stripy set of what?"

John blushed and snatched the paper back. "No, not that one. This!" He handed Simon's pamphlet over. Sherlock read it for a while.

Eventually he shrugged. "It's a typical rant against homosexuals. So what?"

"So what? So what! You honestly don't care that people go around spreading hatred in the name of God?"

"No, not really. Maybe it helps that I don't believe in God."

"Yeah, well I do, Sherlock and I loathe it. I hate that people take the God that I believe in, and claim that he dislikes people who love, people who care, people who are in every way good and humane individuals, simply because they don't love people of the right sex."

"I don't understand. Why does this bother you so much? You're going to marry Mary, with her stripy set of something, and she's perfectly female."

John spun round to face him. "Do you honestly believe I only care about the civil liberties that affect me?"

"No!" Sherlock said, frowning. "I just... I didn't know you felt so strongly about this."

"Don't you?"

"No, not really. His opinion is that gay people are immoral, your opinion is that homophobic people are immoral. He's got a book to back him up and you've got a law to back you up, but ultimately, they're both just opinions."

John stared at him a moment. "And your opinion is?"

"My opinion is that it really doesn't matter. It's really not important who sleeps with whom, or what sex they are or what other people think about them. My opinion is that there have always been people with all of these opinions and there always will be. This isn't the first time I've heard these things said, hell, I've heard similar things said about me personally, by people who really don't know any better. It doesn't matter; they're just people with opinions."

"Yes it does." John said softly.

"Not to me. The only thing that matters is the case, and in my _opinion_ this one is shaping up to be a delight! One of the best!" He looked over at the forlorn looking John. "It would probably make an excellent short story."

A ghost of a smile travelled across John's face. He sat down on a handy bench. "Well, maybe I'm not overjoyed with the idea of helping Simon Garrideb get seven million pounds to help spread more hatred throughout the world."

"Oh! Oh, I see. Perhaps I should have mentioned that there is no money." Sherlock sat down beside John.

"No money?"

"Sorry, I thought you knew. No, there is no money, there is no mine in Malmesbury, there was no Nathan Garrideb, and there is no James Garrideb in Birmingham, and, to the best of my knowledge, there is no Edward Garrideb either."

"But we've met him."

"We've met someone, John, but I'm fairly sure his name isn't Garrideb. Sorry; I thought I explained all of this to you earlier when I told you that everything he said was a lie."

"I thought you just meant the 'not coming to London recently' stuff."

"No, I meant everything."

"Oh. Sorry. My mind has been on other things recently."

"Stripy things?"

John grinned and looked away. "Shut up," he said, mildly.

"So, can you take some antihistamines tomorrow, and meet me back here at four?"

John shook his head. "Sherlock... I'm not sure..."

"Oh there will be plenty of time for unpacking and christening flats, and this will be _housebreaking_. I know how much you like housebreaking."

John smiled. "Well, yeah, but not as much as I like christening flats."

"Come on," Sherlock wheedled. "It could be to make up for the stag party that I failed to organise. Sorry about that by the way."

"It's OK. Mike sorted it."

"Did he? Why wasn't I invited?"

"You were."

"Oh. Sorry. Well, as I missed that one, you should make it up to me by coming on an afternoon of housebreaking tomorrow."

John laughed. "Fine. Fine, I will meet you here tomorrow at four for a spot of delightful housebreaking."

"Thank you." Sherlock smiled at him. "Do you think you're safe to drive now?"

John sniffed. "Yes, I should think so." He sneezed, violently. "Damn it."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

John survived the drive back to Mike's house and handed the car keys over. Mike instantly invited them in.

"Oh we haven't got..." Sherlock started, but John was already through the door.

"Did it all go alright?" Mike asked him.

"Yes, fine. Thanks for the loan." John replied.

"No problem. If there's anything else I can do, just let me know. Come and have some mince pies! Janey and the kids have been cooking up a storm."

They were suddenly interrupted by a small boy wearing pirate pyjamas and wellington boots.

"John! John look at my new axe! Father Christmas gave it to me!"

John took it and examined it.

"This is a marvellous axe, Jamie! Are you going to use it to chop your sister's head off?"

"Mum won't let me."

The sister appeared and John was pulled into the lounge to look at a dolls house.

Mike looked over at Sherlock who was frozen, just inside the door.

"How's the speech coming?" He asked.

"Speech?"

"Yes, you know, for Saturday."

"Saturday?"

Mike grinned. "Sherlock, when John asked you to be his best man, did you have any idea what that meant?"

"John said I just have to show up at the church, and hand across the rings." He thought for a moment. "I would guess I am expected to sit out the ceremony too."

"Right. So you didn't think about looking up the other duties at all?"

"No. A couple of people mentioned a stag night but I didn't think John would be interested in that sort of thing." He glanced over at Mike. "Thank you for that, by the way."

"Oh it's my pleasure. It's nice to see John back to his old self really. You did that. You woke him up you know."

"I did what?"

Mike looked across at him. "You woke him up. When I met him in the park that day I introduced him to you, it was like he was sleep-walking. He's not like that anymore."

Sherlock looked into the living room where John was playing with a remote control car.

"You're not a likely choice of best man, to be honest," Mike went on, "but I think that asking you was John's way of saying thank you. If you need help with the speech or anything else, just let me know."

Sherlock glanced across at him. He'd always thought of Mike as one of the hospital lot; useful to have around when corpses or lab space were needed, but ultimately quite stupid and dull. Of the hospital lot, Mike had always seemed particularly benign. He was always annoyingly cheerful and seemed to have no idea when he was being insulted, and Sherlock had tested him quite severely on that point. This conversation didn't change his opinion at all; he was still stupid and dull. On the other hand, he suddenly had the distinct impression that Mike was 'nice'. And he felt oddly pleased that John had a 'nice' friend.

"Thank you," was all he found to say.

"Right, Jamie, Emily, bedtime!" Mike went into the front room and John came out of it.

"Thanks again, Mike! Give my regards to Jane!" John called back.

"Will do! See you Saturday! Good luck!" was the shouted reply.

Sherlock followed John out of the door.

"Do you think we can get a cab from here?" he asked with a slight whine.

"No, but there's a tube station two streets over."

"Good. We'll be able to get a cab from there."

John laughed.

"Stop being so cheerful." Sherlock told him as they set off down the street. "Can't you go back to being angry again? That was far more interesting."

"What's got into you? You were fine half an hour ago, with the anticipation of a bit of housebreaking and now you're all grumpy again. Did Mike have a go at you?"

"Mike? No, I don't think Mike's capable of having a go at anyone."

They walked in silence for a while.

"Mike's kids are hideous creatures aren't they?" Sherlock said.

"No, Sherlock, they're not." John replied.

Sherlock huffed, and they were silent again for a few minutes.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Did I wake you up?"

"What? No, not this morning. I don't think you've woken me up for... well, it must be a couple of weeks now. It's been nice."

"That's what I thought. Oh, look! A cab!" He flagged it down and they got in.

oOo

John came into the kitchen later, carrying a bag full of chips. Sherlock was sat at the kitchen table working at the computer.

"What are you doing?" John asked him.

"Research." He looked up and sniffed. "Did you get chips?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It's hardly one of your more brilliant deductions when I told you I was going to, I asked if you wanted anything, and then I turned up with a bag smelling of chips. Research into what?"

"The case, obviously. Did you get me anything?"

"No, you told me you didn't want anything."

"John," Sherlock said, looking up and grinning, "I was wrong!"

"Well it's too late now; I'm back. You'll have to go and get your own."

"What? No, not wrong about that; I never eat when I'm working."

"Wrong about what then? Leave my chips alone."

"There is a mine! In Malmesbury! Look!" he spun the computer around so that John could take a look. He also grabbed a handful of chips. "Ow! Hot!" he said, dropping them on the table.

"Serves you right." John sat down and looked at the webpage. "It's not owned by someone called Garrideb though."

"No, it's not owned by anyone at all at the moment; look!" He pulled the computer back and opened anther page with a news article from the Cape Town Express. He turned it round for John to read.

"Mysterious Death of Diamond Mine-owner." John sat down to read the rest of the article. After a moment he looked up at Sherlock. "Does the plot thicken?"

"Hmm? No, not really, it was just a sensationalist headline. Look." He clicked on another browser window and turned the computer back to John.

John read again. "His son killed him?" He smacked Sherlock's hand away from his plate.

"Not only did his son kill him, but he also fled the country before the trial six years ago, and has been hidden since then. John, do you think Interpol might have released a photo of him? Shall we check?"

He clicked on another browser window and spun the computer round in triumph.

"It's him! It's Edward Garrideb! Real name, James Winter!" John leaped from his seat. "Sherlock! You've found him! We should call the police!"

Sherlock spun the computer back around. "Well we could, I suppose. But then we'll never know why he wants to get into Simon Garrideb's flat so much. Wouldn't it be nice, John, to find that out, then turn up at Scotland Yard with this Mr James Winter in tow?"

John stood still for a moment, his eyes torn with indecision. "We really shouldn't, Sherlock..."

"Really? I thought we could though, me and you together. It's a marvellous feeling to catch a criminal, John. First hand and without police help. It could be my wedding present to you."

John looked at him, clearly desperate for the excitement. Suddenly his phone rang. He answered it.

"Mary? What's up?... Slow down... It's OK, it's not a disaster..." He wandered through to the living room. "No, it's OK... Mary, it will be fine... I'll go and collected it... Yes I do have time, I can do it on Thursday... Mary, stop panicking. It's fine, I'll sort it out. Love you."

He hung up.

"Everything OK?" Sherlock called through.

"Yes," John told him, coming back into the kitchen. "There has been some issue with the cake decorator and she can't deliver the cake. I need to get it from Surrey on Thursday."

Sherlock frowned. "Why is your cake in Surrey?"

"Because Mary wanted to use the cake decorator she knew in Surrey. Sherlock! You've eaten all of my bloody chips! Every last one!"

"You weren't eating them."

"I was on the phone!" He swiped Sherlock round the head. "You'll have to go out and get me some more."

"Now you're cross again. You really need to get these mood swings under control, John. Do you think you're a bit stressed this week? I can help with that; catching a criminal can be very relaxing."

"Gnnnyyyaah!" John shouted at him. "Sherlock! Chips! Now!"

* * *

**A/N, apologies for the relative plot freeness of this one. I'm intending to make up for it with the next instalment which will have Action! Drama! Anguish! Humour!**

**Damn, perhaps I shouldn't have sold that quite so big. **


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

At 3:30 the following afternoon, John rounded the corner into Greencroft Gardens, Swiss Cottage. There was no sign of Sherlock, so he went into the park opposite Simon Garrideb's house, and sat on the bench where he and Sherlock had chatted the previous evening.

After a few moments, he found he was becoming a little suspicious of the traffic warden working up and down the street, checking the parking tickets on the cars there.

Sure enough, after a few minutes, he veered into the park and sat down next to John, removing his hat and jacket and dropping them behind the bench.

"You're early," he said.

"Yeah, well Mary and I finished early."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"With the _unpacking_, Sherlock."

"Well, it's just as well you're here. I've been watching the house since ten this morning. Simon and Melissa did leave with plenty of time to get to Euston. Of the two other tenants in the house, one of them left at midday for her shift at the soup kitchen where she will be until evening, and the other is indisposed."

"Indisposed?"

"Yes, he's an on and off recovering alcoholic. Unfortunately, this morning he won a bottle of sherry in the Christmas raffle. Poor chap couldn't even remember entering."

"_Sherlock_!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, if you're ready, I'd quite like to make our move quickly. I suspect James Winter will be in shortly after us and I'd quite like to be in before he makes it to the street."

"He's not here yet?"

"No. I'm certain of it. It's good; I prefer to enter these places via the front door, rather than sneaking around the back like a common criminal."

"After you," John said. He couldn't help but feel light-hearted as he followed Sherlock across the street and up the garden path. It was undoubtedly pleasant to have a change from endless organising and planning and rushing about.

"Tip for the future," Sherlock told him as he pulled his tool kit from his pocket, "when you're picking a lock, don't bend down to eye level. It's ridiculously obvious what you're doing to anyone who's passing by." He pulled out a lock-pick and inserted it into the keyhole. "Do the whole thing by feel. It's one job where you're better off not using sight."

"Thanks. I'll remember that for next time."

Sherlock's face broke into a grin as the lock slid free. "We're in," he said. He ducked round the door and John followed him in. Sherlock locked the door behind them.

The spring lock on the inner flat was even less of a challenge for Sherlock, and they were inside Simon Garrideb's living room in an instant. Sherlock looked around quickly and paced one end of the flat to the other. The flat was made from a knocked through living and dining room. Simon used the living room at the front of the house as a living room, and the dining area as a bedroom. There was no door between, but they were separated by an archway, over which he had hung a heavy velvet curtain on the living room side. It had been closed when Sherlock and John had visited the previous day, but now it was open, and Sherlock quickly took in everything in the tidy bedroom.

He came back to John.

"Are you excited yet?" he asked him, smiling.

"Of course. What's the plan."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, we could search the flat, or we could just wait until Winters turns up and shows us whatever it is he's hidden here."

"He's hidden something here?"

"Of course he has. There's no other reason that he needs Simon to leave the flat so desperately. All of it, the whole sorry tale, has been cooked up for that one purpose. Now, hiding places." He looked about the flat. "Come and stand behind this curtain." John did so. "Perfect. You're completely hidden. I'm going to be behind this chair in the corner." He got into position.

"Do you want me to check if you can be seen?"

"No thanks, I'm fine."

"OK. So we just wait here?"

"Yes."

They waited. Henry came to claw at the curtain that John was stood behind.

"Go away!" John said to him crossly.

"How's the allergy?"

"It's fine," John sniffed, "seems fine. I just think the cat might give away my position."

"It's a cat, there's nothing that can be done. You'll be fine as long as you don't sneeze."

"OK."

They waited some more.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Did you remember your gun?"

"Yes, of course I did."

"Can I have it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm a better shot."

"If you say so."

They waited some more.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Why didn't you mention about the speech?"

"What speech?"

"I'm supposed to give a speech at your wedding."

"Oh, that. Well, it's probably not going to be that formal."

"You're making us wear morning suits."

"Well, yeah, but there won't be many speeches. There won't be any from parents, obviously, so I'll say a few words to thank people for coming, but that will probably be it."

"Oh."

"Are you disappointed?"

"No. But I would give a speech, if you wanted me to."

"Oh. What would you say?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Here lies John. He's an idiot."

John guffawed. They then both became silent as they listened to the sound of someone coming into the house. A moment later and the door to the flat was opened. John could barely see through the heavy weave of the curtain, but he was able to make out a vague shape moving to the centre of the room.

There was the sound of furniture being pushed backwards, and the rug on the floor being moved. He briefly worried about Sherlock's position, but there was no way of checking whether he was still covered without giving away his own position. He chose to trust him.

He was distracted by a sudden movement and he noticed that Henry was now on this side of the curtain, with him.

Henry gave him a disdainful look, then reached up with his front paws and used John's thigh as a scratching post.

John's eyes watered but he fought the impulse to shake the cat off.

He noticed that his nose was suddenly full and itchy. He tried very hard to control himself. He held out for a full thirty seconds, but he couldn't prevent the sneeze.

Winters spun round towards the curtain, and shot blindly with a weapon neither John nor Sherlock had thought about.

John yelled in pain and fell to the ground.

Sherlock was up in an instant, and in one fluid movement he seized a bronze statue of the risen Lord from a coffee table, and brought it down hard on the back of Winter's head. He was floored instantly. Without even looking around at him, Sherlock continued on to John and pulled the curtain back and dropped to his knees.

"John!"

John looked up at him and was surprised. It occurred to him that he'd never seen Sherlock scared before this moment. He'd seen him unnerved before, and frustrated, but never as scared as he was right then.

John suddenly realised that he could forgive Sherlock every single one of his many faults now that he knew the depth of Sherlock's love for him.

He reached out and gently touched Sherlock's head. "I'm fine." He told him.

Sherlock shook off this statement and turned his attention to the bullet hole in John's jeans. The fabric around it was rapidly growing red. Sherlock's strong fingers worked through the hole and tore the fabric further so that he could fully inspect the wound.

"Sherlock, he's moving." John murmured, looking past him.

Sherlock turned back to the room and rushed back to Winters who was just beginning to stir. Before he could fully regain consciousness, Sherlock pulled his arms behind him and smartly snapped a pair of handcuffs over his wrists.

He bent down over him and spoke into his ear. "Know this; if you'd have killed John, you wouldn't have made it out of this room alive."

His anger appeared to overcome him and he pushed Winters' head hard into the floor, breaking his nose.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock left Winters and came back to John. John had gathered a handful of the curtain and was using it to stem the flow of blood. Sherlock gently pushed his hand away.

"John." He said again. "John, I'm so sorry."

"You didn't shoot me." John pointed out.

Sherlock nodded. "That's true." He seemed transfixed by John's wound. "This seems to be bleeding quite a lot."

"Yeah, it's hurting quite a lot too. Sherlock, any chance you could call an ambulance?"

"What? Oh, yes of course."

As he did this, John used more curtain to staunch the flow of blood.

"Shit!" he said suddenly.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, anguished.

"I've just been shot, and I'm getting married on Saturday. This isn't ideal."

"John I'm really sorry. I... I'll make this up to you. I promise! I'll do absolutely anything, John, I'm just so sorry."

"Sherlock, you didn't shoot me," John said again.

"I made you come here though. And it didn't occur to me that he had a gun. I'm an idiot!"

"Well, yeah. But not for this." He gave a Sherlock a smile and grasped for his hand. "After all, Sherlock, this isn't the first time I've been shot and the first time you were in another continent."

Sherlock looked at him. "That's true. You're an idiot."

"That's more like it."

"After all, you're making quite a habit of this."

John laughed then gasped. Sherlock's eyes were concerned again so John gave him another tight smile. "What was under the rug?"

"What? Oh, a trapdoor."

"Oh. What was under the trapdoor?"

Sherlock looked at him. "I don't care."

The ambulance arrived, and with it a police car. Sherlock gave the briefest explanation John had ever heard him give, then he got into the ambulance beside him.

"Sherlock, could you call Mary?" John asked him.

"Why?"

John smiled. "Because I need her to come down here and give you a bollocking. I'm beginning to get too light headed to manage that for myself."

Sherlock frowned. "I thought you said it wasn't my fault."

"Yeah, but now the pain's making me do-lally. I'm beginning to think it is your fault after all."

Sherlock's face clouded.

"It was a joke, Sherlock."

"It wasn't very funny."

"Yeah, well I've just been shot. It throws me off my game a bit."

"Oh." Sherlock glanced over at him. "I couldn't tell the difference."

"Shit!" John said again.

"What is it?"

"I've got to get the cake from Surrey tomorrow."

"I'll do it."

"Are you sure, Sherlock?"

"Of course."

"OK, thanks. Dammit; the suits need picking up on Friday."

"I'll do that too."

"And the button holes?"

"Aren't they attached to the suits?"

"No, the flowers to go in the button holes. They need picking up from the florist on Saturday."

"I'll do that."

"Damn it!"

"What else?"

"The floors in the flat need cleaning."

"Don't push your luck."


	7. Chapter 7

Epilogue

Sherlock sat in a dark corner of the hall. He'd unbuttoned his waistcoat and his bow-tie was unknotted and hung loose around his neck. He sat there, watching John. John was still well buttoned and formal, stood straight, laughing with Mike and someone Sherlock didn't recognise. His face was flushed but he looked happy and relaxed. Several paces to his left, Mary was chatting with Molly. They too looked happy and relaxed.

The whole room appeared to be full of happy and relaxed people. Sherlock watched them all, wondering when it would be a reasonable time to leave.

Just as he'd decided he could duck out, Lestrade came and sat next to him. Sherlock sighed and looked away.

"Good speech," Lestrade said to him.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Unusual, certainly. I've never seen a wedding speech presented in PowerPoint before."

Sherlock studied his shoes.

"And one titled 'Ten ways in which John Watson is an idiot.' Certainly it was a novel take on a best man's speech."

Sherlock looked away.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said gently, "he seems very happy."

"I know he is." Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade was quite for a few moments. "So... Michael Evans," he said eventually.

Sherlock looked round with a frown.

"AKA Edward Garideb, AKA James Winters. Travelled to the UK on a false passport and within a month of arriving here, five and a half years ago, he was arrested and convicted for armed robbery. He's been in Brixton prison since then. Silly sod. He'd left various items with a friend while he was inside. Unfortunately for him, his friend was also arrested and his flat was taken over by Mr Simon Garrideb."

"What was under the trapdoor?"

"His original South African passport, about two million pounds worth of uncut diamonds, and a gun. The weapon he used to shoot John was the murder weapon he used to kill his Dad back in South Africa. Interpol extend their thanks to you."

"They're welcome."

He looked back at John, now holding Mary's hand casually while she appeared to be introducing him to a group of his friends. Someone pulled out a camera and John pulled Mary towards him for the photo.

From across the room, Sherlock smiled.

"He's not an idiot," he said to Lestrade. He stood up and left the hall.

He hailed and got into a black cab.

"Where to, Mate?"

"Baker Street. No, wait. I need to go to Whitehall. I'll direct you from Pall Mall."

* * *

**A/N**

**There we go. Sorry for the rushed feel of the epilogue here. I'm fighting an ear infection and it took me an hour and a half to type but I want to finish this today.**

**Thank you, thank you to reviewers. Love you all.**

**PowerPoint here dedicated to Katkin. Katkin; if you want to write the speech, I think you'd do a fantastic job of it!**

**Next up; Scarlet. I've got a lot written already, but I'm still working on some subplots. My intention is to have it nearly complete before publishing, and give you a chapter a day. Expect the first chapter on Monday next week.**

**Pip xxx**


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